The Captain looked angry, which made the men better reconciled to the fact that he was leaving. All of them feared his angers. But once he left, before he and the mare were even out of sight, their mood of relief changed back to one of apprehension.
Jasper Fant, so cheerful only an hour before, sank the fastest. “Good lord,” he said. “Here we are in Montana and there’s Indians and bears and it’s winter coming on and the Captain and Gus both off somewhere. I’ll be surprised if we don’t get massacred.”
For once Soupy Jones didn’t have a word to say.
95.
AUGUSTUS KEPT HIS PISTOL COCKED ALL NIGHT, once Pea Eye left. He watched the surface of the river closely, for the trick he hoped might work for Pea could also work for the Indians. They might put a log in the water and float down on him, using the log for cover. He tried to look and listen closely, a task not helped by the fact that he was shaking and feverish.
He expected the Indians to come sliding out of the water like big snakes, right in front of him, but none came, and as his fever mounted he began to mumble. From time to time he was half aware that he was delirious, but there was nothing he could do about it, and anyway he preferred the delirium to the tedium of waiting for the Indians to attack. One minute he would be trying to watch the black water, the next he would be back at Clara’s. At times he saw her face vividly.
The dawn broke sunny. Bad as he felt, Augustus still enjoyed seeing the sun. It helped clear his head and stirred him to thoughts of escape. He was sick of the little cold cave under the riverbank. He had thought to wait there for Call, but the more he considered, the more he felt it to be a bad plan. Call’s arrival was days away, and dependent on Pea getting through. If Pea didn’t get through—and the chances were good that he wouldn’t—then Call might not even start to look for him for another week.
As a student of wounds, he knew just by looking at his leg that he was in trouble. The leg was yellowish, with black streaks striping the yellow. Blood poisoning was a possibility. He knew that if he didn’t get medical attention within the next few days his chances were slim. Even waiting for nightfall might be folly.
If the Indians caught him in the open, his chances would be equally slim, of course, but it took no deliberation to know that if he had to choose, and he did, he would prefer the active to the passive course.
As soon as the sun was well up he eased out of the cave and stood up. The bad leg throbbed. Even to touch his toes to the ground hurt. The waters were rapidly receding. Fifty yards to the east, a game trail led up the creek bank. Augustus decided to use the carbine he had taken off the Indian boy as a crutch. He cut the stirrups off the saddle and lashed one over each end of the rifle, then padded one end of his rude crutch with a piece of saddle leather. He stuffed one pistol under his belt, holstered the other, took his rifle and a pocketful of jerky, and hobbled across along the bank to the animal trail.
He edged cautiously out of the riverbed, but saw no Indians. The broad plain was empty for miles. The Indians had left. Augustus wasted no time in speculation. He started at once, hobbling southeast toward Miles City. He hoped he had not more than thirty or forty miles to go before he struck the town.
He was not used to the crutch and he made poor time. When occasionally he forgot and set his bad foot to the ground, the pain was almost enough to make him pass out. He was weak, and had to stop every hour or so to rest. In the hot sun, sweat poured out of him, though he felt cold and feared a chill. Two or three miles from where he started, he crossed the tracks of a sizable herd of buffalo—they were probably the reason the Indians had left. With winter coming, buffalo were more important to the warriors than two white men, though probably they meant to return and finish off the whites once the hunt was over.
All day he persevered, dragging himself along. He stopped less frequently, because he found it hard to get started once he stopped. Rest was seductive, made more so by his tendency to improve the situation through imagination. Maybe the herd had moved north faster than he calculated. Maybe Call would show up the next day and save him the painful business of dragging along with his crutch.
Yet he hated waiting almost as much as he hated the traveling. His habit had been to go and meet whatever needed to be met, not to wait idly for what might approach.
What was approaching now was death, he knew. He had faced it before and overridden its motion with his own. To sit and wait for it gave it too many advantages. He had seen many men die of wounds, and had watched the turning of their spirits from active desire to live to indifference. With a bad wound, the moment indifference took over, life began to subside. Few men rose out of it: most lost all impulse toward activity and ended by offering death at least a halfhearted welcome.
Augustus didn’t intend to do that, so he struggled on. When he took his rests he took them standing up, leaning on the crutch. It took less will to get started if one was standing up.
He hobbled over the plain through the long afternoon and twilight, finally collapsing sometime in the night. His hand slipped off the crutch and he felt it falling from him. In stooping to reach for it, he fell facedown, unconscious before he hit the ground. In his dreams he was with Lorena, in the tent on the hot Kansas plains. He longed for her to cool him somehow, touch him with her cool hand, but though she smiled, she didn’t cool him. The world had become red, as though the sun had swollen and absorbed it. He felt as if he were lying on the surface of the red sun as it looked at sunset when it sank into the plain.
When he got his eyes open the sun was white, not red, and directly above him. He heard a spitting sound, such as a human would make, and his hand went to the pistol at his belt, thinking the Indians had come. But when he turned his head, it was a white man he saw: a very old, small white man in patched buckskins. The old man had a tobacco-stained beard and a bowie knife in his hand. A spotted horse grazed nearby. The old man was just squatting there, watching. Augustus kept his hand on his gun, but didn’t draw it—he didn’t know if he had the strength to draw it.
“Them was Blood Indians,” the old man said. “It beats all that they didn’t get you. You got enough of them.”
“Five is all,” Augustus said, raising himself to a sitting position. He didn’t like to talk lying down.
“Seven I heard,” the old man said. “I get along with the Bloods and the Blackfeet too. Bought lots of beaver from them in the beaverin’ days.”
“I’m Augustus McCrae,” Augustus said.
“Hugh Auld,” the visitor said. “Down Miles City they call me Old Hugh, although I doubt I’m eighty yet.”
“Was you meaning to stab me with that knife?” Augustus asked. “I’d rather not shoot you unnecessarily.”
Old Hugh grinned and spat again. “I was about to have a go at cutting off that rotten leg of yours,” he said. “Before you come to, I was. That leg’s ruint, but I might have a hell of a time cutting through the bone without no saw. Besides, you might have woke up and give me trouble.”
“ ’Spect I would have,” Augustus said, looking at the leg. It was no longer black-striped—just black.
“We got to take it off,” Old Hugh said. “If that rot gets in the other leg you’ll lose both of them.”
Augustus knew the old man was right in everything he said. The leg was rotting, but a bowie knife was no instrument for taking it off.
“How far is Miles City?” he asked. “I guess they’ve got a sawbones there.”
“Two, last time I went to town,” Old Hugh said. “Both drunkards.”
“You forgot to inform me of the distance,” Augustus said.
“Forty miles and a fraction,” Hugh said. “I don’t believe you could have walked it.”
Augustus used the crutch to pull himself up. “I might fool you,” he said, though it was just pride talking. He knew quite well he couldn’t have walked it. Just getting to his feet left him nauseous.
“Where’d you come from, stranger?” the old man asked. He rose to his feet but did no
t exactly straighten up. His back was bent. To Augustus he seemed scarcely five feet tall.
“I was setting a deadfall and let it fall on me,” Old Hugh explained cheerfully. “Some Blood warriors found me. They thought it was funny, but my back never did straighten out.”
“We all have misfortunes,” Augustus said. “Could I borrow your horse?”
“Take it, only don’t kick him,” Old Hugh said. “If you kick him he’ll buck. I’ll follow along as best I can in case you fall off.”
He led the spotted horse over and helped Augustus mount. Augustus thought he might pass out, but managed not to. He looked at Old Hugh.
“You sure you get along with these Indians?” he asked. “I’d be embarrassed if you came to any trouble on my account.”
“I won’t,” Old Hugh said. “They’re off stuffing themselves with fresh buffalo meat. I was invited to join ’em but I think I’ll poke along after you, even though I don’t know where you come from.”
“A little fart of a town called Lonesome Dove,” Augustus said. “It’s in south Texas, on the Rio Grande.”
“Dern,” the old man said, clearly impressed by the information. “You’re a traveling son of a bitch, ain’t you?”
“Does this horse have a name?” Augustus asked. “I might need to speak to him.”
“I been calling him Custer,” Old Hugh said. “I done a little scouting for the General once.”
Augustus paused a minute, looking down at the old trapper. “I got one more favor to ask you,” he said. “Tie me on. I ain’t got strength enough to mount again if I should fall.”
The old man was surprised. “I guess you’ve learned some tricks, with all your traveling,” he said. He fixed a rawhide loop around Augustus’s waist and made it tight to the cantle.
“Let’s go, Custer,” Augustus said, giving the horse rein and remembering not to kick him.
Five hours later, as the sun was setting, he nudged the exhausted horse over a slope north of the Yellowstone and saw the little town of Miles City four or five miles to the east.
When he got to town it was nearly dark. He stopped in front of what appeared to be a saloon but found he could not dismount. Then he remembered that he was tied on. He couldn’t untie the knots in the rawhide, but managed to draw his pistol and fire in the air. The first shot seemed to go unnoticed, but when he fired twice more several men came to the door of the saloon and looked at him.
“That’s Old Hugh’s horse,” one said in a sullen voice, as if he suspected Augustus of horse theft.
“Yes, Mr. Auld was kind enough to loan him to me,” Augustus said, staring the man down. “I’ve a ruined leg and would appreciate it if someone would locate me a medical man quick.”
The men walked out and came around the horse. When they saw the leg, one whistled.
“What done that?” he asked.
“An arrow,” Augustus said.
“Who are you, sir?” the oldest of the men asked, more respectfully.
“Augustus McCrae, Captain in the Texas Rangers,” Augustus said. “One of you gentlemen will need to help me with these knots.”
They hurried to help, but before they could get him off the horse the red water washed over his eyes again. The spotted horse named Custer didn’t like so many men around him. He tried to bite one of them, then bucked twice, throwing Augustus, who had just been untied, into the street. Two of the men tried to catch the horse but he easily outran them and raced back out of town.
96.
AUGUSTUS FLOATED in the red water. Sometimes he saw faces, heard voices, saw more faces. He saw Bolivar and Lippy, his two wives, his three sisters. He saw men long dead whom he had rangered with, saw Pedro Flores and Pea Eye and a redheaded whore he had taken up with for a month in his riverboating days. He sloshed helplessly back and forth, as if something were churning the water.
When the redness receded and he opened his eyes again, he heard a piano playing in the distance. He was in bed in a small hot room. Through the open window he could see the great Montana prairie. Looking around, he noticed a small fat man dozing in a chair nearby. The man wore a black frock coat sprinkled with dandruff. A bottle of whiskey and an old bowler hat nearly as disreputable as Lippy’s sat on a small bureau. The fat man was snoring peacefully.
Feeling considerable pain, Augustus looked down and saw that his left leg was gone. The stump had been bandaged, but the bandage was leaking. Blood seeped through it, though it was a thick bandage.
“If you’re the sawbones, wake up and stop this drip,” Augustus said. He felt irritable and sad, and wished the whiskey bottle were in reach.
The little fat man jerked as if poked with a fork, and opened his eyes. His cheeks were red-streaked—from excessive drinking, Augustus supposed. He put both hands on his head as if surprised that it was still there.
“And pass the whiskey, if you can spare any,” Augustus added. “I hope you ain’t thrown my leg away.”
The doctor jerked again, as if every statement pricked him.
“You’ve got a mighty healthy voice for a sick man,” the doctor said. “In this room, such a voice is a tight fit.”
“Well, it’s the only voice I got,” Augustus said.
The doctor put his hands to his temple again. “It strikes my temples like a ten-pound hammer,” he said. “Though I’m sorry to complain. The truth is I don’t feel well myself.”
“You probably drink too much,” Augustus said. “If you’ll hand me the bottle I’ll reduce your temptations.”
The doctor did, but not before taking a swig. Augustus took several while the doctor shuffled around and stood looking out the window. Across the street the piano was still playing.
“That girl plays beautifully,” the doctor said. “They say she studied music in Philadelphia when she was younger.”
“How old is she now?” Augustus asked. “Maybe I’ll send her a bouquet.”
The doctor smiled. “It’s plain you’re a man of spirit,” he said. “That’s good. I’m afraid you’ve a few fractuosities yet to endure.”
“A few what?” Augustus asked. “You better introduce yourself before you start talking Latin.”
“Dr. Mobley,” the man said. “Joseph C. Mobley, to be precise. The C stands for Cincinnatus.”
“More Latin, I guess,” Augustus said. “Explain that first bunch of Latin you talked.”
“I mean we’ve got to take off that other leg,” Dr. Mobley said. “I should have done it while you were out, but frankly, getting the left leg off exhausted me.”
“It’s a good thing,” Augustus said. “If you’d hacked off my right leg, you’d be the one who was out. I need that right leg.”
His gun belt was hanging over a chair nearby, and he reached out and took his pistol from the holster.
The doctor looked around, reaching out his hand for the whiskey bottle. Augustus gave it to him and he took a long drink and handed it back.
“I understand your attachment to your own appendages,” he said, opening the bandage. He winced when he looked at the wound, but kept working. “I don’t want to cut your other leg off bad enough to get shot in the process. However, you’ll die if you don’t reconsider. That’s a plain fact.”
“Go buy me some more whiskey,” Augustus said. “There’s money in my pants. Is that girl playing the piano a whore?”
“Yes, her name is Dora,” the doctor said. “Consumptive, I’m afraid. She’ll never see Philadelphia again.” He began to wrap the leg in a clean bandage.
Augustus suddenly grew faint. “Give her twenty dollars out of my pants and tell her to keep playing,” he said. “And shove this bed a little closer to the window—it’s stuffy in here.”
The doctor managed to shove the bed over near the window, but the effort tired him so that he sat back down in the chair where he had been dozing.
Augustus recovered a little. He watched the doctor a moment. “Physician, heal thyself, ain’t that what they say?” he remarked.
“I’ll go get the whiskey,” he said. “While I’m about it, I’d advise you to take a sober look at your prospects. If you persist in your attachment to your right leg it’ll be the last opportunity you have to take a sober look at anything.”
“Don’t forget to tip that girl,” Augustus said. “Hurry back with my whiskey and bring a glass.”
Dr. Mobley turned at the door. “We should operate today,” he said. “Within the hour, in fact, although we could wait long enough for you to get thoroughly drunk, if that would help. There’s men enough around here to hold you down, and I think I could have that leg off in fifteen minutes.”
“You ain’t getting that leg,” Augustus said. “I might could get by without the one, but I can’t without both.”
“I assure you the alternative is gloomy,” Dr. Mobley said. “Why close your own case? You’ve a taste for music and you seem to have funds. Why not spend the next few years listening to whores play the piano?”
“You said the girl was dying,” Augustus said. “Just go get the whiskey.”
Dr. Mobley returned a little later with two bottles of whiskey and a glass. A young giant of a man, so tall he had to stoop to get in the room, followed him.
“This is Jim,” Dr. Mobley said nervously. “He’s offered to sit with you while I go make my rounds.”
Augustus cocked his pistol and leveled it at the young man. “Get out, Jim,” he said. “I don’t need company.”
Jim left immediately—so immediately that he forgot to stoop and bumped his head on the door frame. Dr. Mobley looked even more nervous. He moved the bureau a little nearer the bed and sat both bottles within Augustus’s reach.
“That was rude,” he said.
“Listen,” Augustus said. “You can’t have this leg, and if you’re thinking of overpowering me you have to calculate on losing about half the town. I can shoot straight when I’m drunk, too.”
“I only want to save your life,” Dr. Mobley said, taking a drink from the first bottle before pouring Augustus a glassful.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 223
